A Cup of Kindness
by cheride
Summary: It's the time of year for making new plans. Maybe.


_This is a work of fanfiction, for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

**Author's Notes:** Apologies to Owl for being tardy in responding to her challenge (and for even mentioning the word 'kid'!). Also to my fellow hive members, as this walks all over the timeline established in _All Things Change but Truth_. But, dang, there are just so many New Year's Eves to deal with.

* * *

**A Cup of Kindness**

by

Cheride

_And here's a hand, my trusty friend  
__And give a hand of thine_—Robert Burns

Hardcastle cast a dubious glance to the other side of the room. "You sure you're gonna make it to watch the ball drop? You don't really look so good."

McCormick raised an eyebrow at him. "Is it my fault your buddy, Guerkink, forgot to give his thugs the holiday off? And besides, it's almost midnight back east. I'll see 1987 start somewhere before I nod off."

"Well, I hope Karl and his boys celebrated early, since they'll be ringing in the new year behind bars."

"And it couldn't happen to a nicer bunch of guys," Mark told him as he rearranged the cool cloth across his left eye.

Hardcastle grinned and turned his attention back to the television that had been playing quietly for the past hour. For his part, he'd thought if you returned home from a long day of crime fighting that ended with a trip to ER, it would be okay to ring in the new year with a quick shower and an early night in bed. McCormick had disagreed. _His_ view was that if you survived another day of crime fighting without being _admitted_ to the hospital, that was reason enough to celebrate; the fact that the year was drawing to a close was just icing on the cake. Besides, he'd argued, this was the last official day to light up the Christmas tree, and he hadn't intended to pass up the opportunity.

So, they'd gone their separate ways for showers and comfortable sweats, then gathered in the den for an easy dinner of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, and sat down to watch Dick Clark rock in the new year and enjoy the lights on their tree one last time. Hardcastle figured the fact that he'd had time to get dinner prepared and almost on the plates before the kid had shuffled back over to the main house was a testament that quick showers took longer when dealing with a multitude of scrapes and bruises, not to mention a cracked rib. Sitting here now, listening to this noise from the television instead of trying to find something decent to watch, he recognized his own concessions to the kid's most recent turn as a bad guy's punching bag.

"I miss Guy Lombardo," he lamented. "I never even heard of this—" he took a second to read the on-screen graphic, "—Miami Sound Machine," he completed.

"I like 'em," McCormick replied. "They make you wanna dance."

"You mean they make _pretty girls_ wanna dance," Hardcastle returned dryly.

"Exactly." The grin was unrepentant. "And besides, that Gloria Estefan isn't too bad to look at, either."

"The problem with this holiday," the judge went on, mindless of Gloria Estefan, "is that there's not any good movies or anything." He pointed at the screen. "And look at those people, out there in the freezing cold, drinking and dancing and screaming their heads off. All of 'em so young." He shook his head. "It's a holiday for kids."

"I thought that was Christmas."

"Grown up kids," Hardcastle clarified.

"Ah. Nothing for the retired noted jurist and the recuperating law student, is that what you're saying?"

"Exactly," the retired noted jurist answered, not even attempting a smile. Then he sighed slightly and repeated, "I miss Guy Lombardo."

Mindful of his ribs, McCormick set aside his cloth and raised himself slowly to a more upright position to face the judge directly. "Are you okay?"

Hardcastle didn't have to think long about an answer. "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?" But he knew even as the words left his mouth that his young friend wasn't buying it. And truthfully, he wasn't sure there was much reason he should.

"I'm serious, Judge," McCormick said soberly. "What's going on with you?"

This time, Hardcastle hesitated a moment, though there didn't really seem to be much point; the kid would figure it out sooner or later. "I've been thinking about resolutions for the new year," he began slowly.

"Really?" Mark raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you did that."

"Well, it's not really the kind of thing you talk about. I mean, some things are sort of personal, ya know?"

"Yeah, I know," McCormick nodded. "I guess I never talk about it when I make 'em, either."

"You do it, too, huh?"

"Sometimes."

"You manage to keep any?"

"Sometimes," McCormick repeated, "if they were important." He flashed a quick grin. "You might not've noticed, but I can be pretty stubborn about things once in a while."

Hardcastle did manage a grin of his own at that. "Yeah. That much I've picked up on."

"So what about this year's resolution?" McCormick prompted after a moment.

"I'm thinking it's time to retire."

McCormick stared at him a brief moment, then asked, "What are you talking about? You _are_ retired."

But Hardcastle shook his head. "I mean _really_ retire; time to hang up the mask and spurs."

"Why?" The incredulity was apparent.

With a quick gesture toward the television, Hardcastle answered, "Because I'm not those people anymore." Then he turned the gesture toward the other man. "And because you're supposed to be on vacation, relaxing and having a good time, not layin' over there banged and bruised like last week's bananas."

McCormick pointed at his eye. "This? You're not seriously worried about _this_? Hardcase, this is nothing."

"It's not 'nothing'," Hardcastle contradicted, "and it could've been a lot worse. Hell, it _has_ been a lot worse. We're just gettin' too old for this stuff, kiddo, and you've got other things to worry about now."

"Shouldn't I get a vote?"

"A vote?" Hardcastle felt his own wave of incredulity. "You've been sayin' for three years you thought we oughta stay out of things and let the cops do their own jobs."

The young man seemed to give that a moment's thought. "I guess I did say that a lot," he conceded. "But I haven't said it in a long time."

Hardcastle had to admit that was true. "Yeah; you've been a trouper to put up with some of this stuff as long as you have."

"That's not exactly what I meant," McCormick objected.

"Then what do you mean?" Hardcastle asked, pulling a hand over his head. "Because it just seems to me that we've had a pretty good run and it might be better to quit while we're ahead. And while we're both still in one piece," he added pointedly.

There was a moment of silence before Mark said suddenly, "I made a resolution once, when I was in about fourth grade. I was getting into some trouble at school—nothing major, but the teachers complained to my mom a lot about my lip, and it upset her. So I wanted to find a way to stop my mouth from running all the time; not be so flippant about so many things."

"Hah. I guess even your stubbornness wasn't enough for that one, huh?"

"I was a kid, ya know? I didn't want to upset my mom, but I guess I didn't really think it was all that important. But I didn't give up entirely. When I was sixteen, I think, I tried it again; thought maybe it'd make things easier in the foster homes."

"But you were still a kid," Hardcastle commented. He didn't bother asking the point of the reminiscences; McCormick would get to it eventually. And if he didn't, well, even after three years, there were still a lot of things he'd never heard.

Mark nodded. "But the weird thing is, when I got locked up, running my mouth might be the thing that kept me alive. I mean, you can't mouth off to just _anybody_, ya know, but the right time, the right place . . . a fast patter and poking a little fun can do a world of good."

"So you're telling me I got you the way you are because society's misfits appreciated your smart-ass attitude?"

"Something like that," McCormick grinned. Then he straightened himself a little further, and leaned forward carefully, sincerity painted on his face. "But what I'm really trying to tell you, Judge, is that I never could keep that resolution, even though I did try. And you know why? Because things make me mad sometimes. And sometimes I think things are funny. Or incredible. Or just plain dumb. And I tend to say so. The world—and the people in it—can be crazy, and just like in prison, a fast patter and poking fun can get you through it. It's what I do. It's who I _am_. All the resolutions in the world could never change that."

Hardcastle thought about that a few seconds, then challenged, "You saying I can't retire?"

McCormick shrugged. "I'm saying that fixing things, wanting things to be right—that's what _you_ are. I'm not sure you can turn that off." He paused very briefly, then added, "And, honestly, I'm not sure why you'd want to."

Hardcastle examined McCormick for a moment, considering the way the glow of the television and the blinking lights of the tree hid the black eye and the cut lip, not to mention the winces of pain whenever he moved too quickly. Not that the kid didn't have a point; retirement would be hard. Wasn't that mostly what had gotten them into the Lone Ranger and Tonto business to begin with? But he thought maybe wrapping up a case on New Year's Eve was some sort of an omen; a sign that it was finally time. And maybe wrapping it up with yet another visit to St. Mary's—where they were practically on a first-name basis with the ER staff—was meant to remind him that there were consequences to his decisions that would be borne by others.

"You're in law school now, kid," he finally said by way of an answer, "and being Tonto has been pretty much a full time job. You don't have time for both. And me . . .well, even if I hadn't promised you that I wouldn't go tracking the outlaws alone, it might be time to admit that the masked man actually _needs_ some back-up."

Sudden understanding dawned in McCormick's eyes. "You're mad because I took on that guy that was coming after you!"

"Not mad," Hardcastle contradicted solemnly, "_scared_. He got the jump on me, plain and simple. I was careless, too slow on my feet, and you paid the price for it. Not like it's the first time, either. I'm almost seventy years old, McCormick; I'm just saying I think it's time to hang it up."

But McCormick was shaking his head. "You been hittin' the holiday eggnog again, Hardcase? Or those peanuts from your stocking? We're partners, Kemosabe. I step in front of a guy for you; you step in front of a guy for me. That's the way it works—the way it's _always_ worked. And in case you hadn't noticed, you've been 'almost seventy years old' since we started this thing. It's never made sense, Judge, but it's always worked. And as for law school, I've been in school a year now, and things have been just fine. They'll be just fine until I'm done.

"Have you forgotten what we did today, Hardcastle? Karl Guerkink—full-time forger and extortionist, part-time killer—went to jail. And he went to jail because of us . . .because of _you_. A black eye and a few bumps is a small price to pay for that; always has been."

"You're going to be a lawyer, McCormick," the older man argued. "You can't keep running around tackling goons in warehouses."

"You were a lawyer," Mark pointed out, "a judge, even." He held up a hand. "And, yeah, I get it; you weren't doing this sort of thing when you were actually practicing. Well, I'm not actually practicing yet, either. When I finish school, we'll look into finding a different way to make things right. But, Judge, it's what you are. And it's part of what I am now, too. You can't retire from being you."

A smile spread slowly across Hardcastle's face. "What you are too, huh?"

McCormick shrugged slightly and settled back more comfortably against the sofa. "Sure. I told you; I manage to stick to the important things." He smiled slightly. "Especially when I've got a partner for back-up." Then, without waiting for any other comments, he lifted his arm and pointed at his watch. "Only five minutes till the ball drops in Times Square; why don't you go pour the champagne? We'll toast now in case we fall asleep too early."

Hardcastle didn't argue, just silently slipped out of the room, still wearing a satisfied smile. He returned just a few minutes later carrying flutes, and handed one over to McCormick.

"Hey, where are the bubbles?" McCormick examined his glass more closely. "What is this?"

"Apple juice. I didn't read your discharge papers completely, but I'm pretty sure there's something in there about no alcohol with the pain pills."

"Apple juice. What would Guy Lombardo think about that?" But he grinned and raised the glass toward his friend. "To partners."

"To partners," Hardcastle agreed.

Watching the ball drop slowly on the television screen, McCormick added one final thought as the glasses clinked together. "And to being yourself."

"I'll definitely drink to that. Thank you, and happy new year, kiddo."


End file.
